


The Unwilling Host

by jmtorres



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-11-26
Updated: 2005-11-26
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jmtorres/pseuds/jmtorres
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The House MD Thanksgiving story. Which is all Wilson's fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unwilling Host

Wilson showed up on Thursday morning with a twelve-pound frozen turkey hanging from one hand and in the other hand, a grocery bag containing six sweet potatoes, a can of cranberry sauce and a roll of Pilsbury dough.

House leaned on the door, bathrobe agape, and eyed the turkey doubtfully. "There's no way that turkey's gonna thaw enough to cook today," he pointed out.

"The store was out of fresh," Wilson said snippily, shouldering past him to set his goods down in the kitchen.

"I can't believe Julie would wait until Thursday morning to buy a turkey," House said, essaying even greater incredulity.

"Julie's up in Connecticut with her family," Wilson answered.

"Well, then, why aren't you _with_ her?" House asked grouchily.

"I told her I was on call," Wilson said. He pulled a plate down from House's cabinet and set the turkey on it, then put in the fridge.

"Well, make the biscuits, anyway," House suggested, hobbling to the couch. "I haven't had any breakfast yet." After a moment of channel-surfing, he added hopefully, "Is there a pumpkin pie down in the car?"

"The store was out of those, too," Wilson answered. There was a rattle as he got out a cookie sheet, and House slid further down among the couch cushions, content.

They had the biscuits with margarine and orange marmalade and coffee. Wilson brought the take-out menu box with breakfast in the interests of getting an early decision on lunch.

"Mrs. Smith's," he suggested, waving a menu in one hand and a biscuit in the other. "They'll have turkey, and they'll _have_ to have pumpkin pie."

"Boring," said House. "We'll be eating your bird tomorrow, anyway."

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Fine, what do you want?"

"Chinese," House said, fishing through the box for the high-end dim sum place.

"When do you think we should call it in?" Wilson asked.

"When we're hungry," House said reasonably. "Watch the damn TV."

It was Spike TV's James Bond marathon. They were still in the Sean Connery years. The big ham was trying to get into Ms. Moneypenny's pants again. House wondered idly if they were going to show _Never Say Never Again,_ or if they were sticking to the traditional Bond canon.

Wilson said, "I wish there was a Jewish super spy. I feel underrepresented."

" _Casino Royale,_ " said House. "I wish there was a crippled super spy."

"Alex Krycek," Wilson answered, which was hardly comparable. Missing an arm? Pish.

"Not the hero," House argued, snagging the last biscuit. "I want my crippled super spy hero to be the _lead._ "

"Gee, that sounds like an afternoon special," Wilson teased him.

Which it did. "He probably plays wheelchair basketball and teaches high school as his secret identity," House agreed with great discouragement.

"And gets all the women despite being paralyzed from the waist down," Wilson said.

"And despite having his colon in a plastic bag," House added maliciously, "which is probably a bigger obstacle to getting women than impotence."

"Unless they're really kinky," Wilson said. "Which, you have to admit, the kind of leather cat-suited lady spies who show up in these things are probably kinkier than the average woman."

"You're thinking of superhero flicks, not super spies," House said. "These are all Mata Haris in miniskirts."

The phone rang around noon, and House was actually close enough to reach it, so he did. It was probably his mom, and he'd rather not screen that call in front of Wilson. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was female, but definitely not maternal. "Is he there?" she asked coldly.

"Hi, Julie," said House. "Yes, he's here."

Julie said, still quiet, "That bastard, he said he'd be at the hospital all day," at the same time as Wilson whipped around and said, "Hey, give me that--"

House leaned away as Wilson tried to lean over him. "He's on call, he hasn't been called in yet. What was he supposed to do, haunt your empty house?"

"He was supposed to come with--" Me, House assumed, but Wilson got the phone away from him then. House's height was useless sitting down, and he wasn't going to put his leg out for keepaway.

"Damn it," said Wilson, "I think I muted it."

"Let me see," said House.

But Wilson said, "No, I've got it, I think," and punched a few more buttons, and held it up to his ear. "Hello? Hello--there you are. Look, House was all by himself for Thanksgiving. He didn't even have a turkey. We're ordering Chinese." He listened for a moment. "Yes, you should." A pause. "Sure. Whatever you want." Another pause. "Yes, he is."

"I'm what?" House demanded.

Wilson waved at him. "Fine, I'll see you then." He frowned and held the phone out, staring at him. "She hung up on me," he said mournfully, even though "I'll see you then" sounded pretty final to House. Maybe he'd meant to tell her he loved her? He gave House's phone back and pulled out his cell phone to call her back. House listened with an inattentive ear while he pleaded and apologized, and went through the whole schtick about poor House, all alone, no turkey, _again_ , and promised to pick her up at the airport on Sunday, and repeated her flight information back to her, and finally wound down.

He didn't once say "I love you," which kind of invalidated House's theory about the earlier hang-up, but on the whole, House felt pretty sympathetic to his plight. He didn't have an inkling of suspicion until the doorbell rang at quarter 'til one.

"I'll get it if you want," said Wilson, watching House struggling to pull himself out of the couch.

"No, you won't," said House, and limped over to the door.

"What do you wa-- _Chase?_ " House stared in horror. He pointed at the brown paper bag in Chase's hand and said, somewhat hysterically, "This is not a potluck, and the closest we're getting to turkey is mandarin duck!"

"I know," said Chase. "Wilson told me. This is kung pao chicken, General Tso's chicken, and pork-fried rice."

House turned to Wilson and asked plaintively, "Have I done something in _particular_ to piss you off lately?"

"You ratted me out," said Wilson, smiling fondly.

To Julie. Oh, he should have realized. Why should he have to go through the poor House sob story _twice_? Because he was telling it to two different people. The bastard.

"What'd he do?" Chase asked House nervously.

"Stood up his in-laws," House said. "When's the rest of the gang getting here?"

"Cameron and Foreman should be getting off in about fifteen minutes," Chase said. He looked somewhat reassured.

"Great. Just great," House said. He stomped off, though he did most of the stomping with his cane.

"Where are you going?" Wilson asked him.

"To get dressed. Wouldn't want to shock the kids," House said.

"You need any help?" Wilson asked.

"What am I, five?" House asked. "You're not my mommy. Go away." He shut his bedroom door behind him, then paused, opened the door, and stuck his head out. "You realize you've shot yourself in the foot," he told Wilson. "We can't have rough sex in every room of the apartment if _they're_ here."

"Don't let me stop you," said Chase.

"Heh," said House appreciatively, and shut the door again.

He wrestled his jeans on and shucked his bathrobe in favor of the "Doctors Do It With Drugs" t-shirt he'd bought after the twentieth claim that he was addicted to Vicodin, then he returned to the living room. Chase was gone. "Did you come to your senses and send him away?" House asked.

"No, he's picking up the take-out from Lee Chang's," Wilson said. "I know you had your heart set on the octopus dumplings, and what he brought isn't enough if everybody else is coming."

House stuck his tongue out at Wilson and grabbed one of the cartons of food Chase had left on the table. It turned out to be the kung pao chicken. House ate around the peanuts.

"Why do you have Chase's phone number memorized, anyway?" House asked.

"I have him stalk you when I'm worried about you and too busy to do it personally," Wilson said flippantly.

Truth? It didn't sound true. Of course, the tone could be a deflection to hide the truth of content. On the other hand, they could be having secret assignations in the fifth floor restroom--but for that, Wilson probably only needed Chase's pager number. But he said it anyway. "You're sleeping with him, aren't you?"

Wilson nodded, with that half-incredulous, half-amused look of his. "Yes, that's it, exactly."

"Julie's gonna be pi-issed," House singsonged.

Foreman and Cameron arrived before Chase made it back. They brought a bottle of red wine and a plastic dish of stuffing, respectively. "Thanks," he said to Foreman. "We're having Chinese," House said to Cameron, taking Foreman's bottle of wine.

"But it's Thanksgiving!" Cameron protested.

Wilson took the stuffing and put it in the fridge, telling her kindly, "We're having turkey tomorrow." He brought back some wine glasses, two in each hand, stems between his fingers, corkscrew held between his teeth.

House extracted the corkscrew and opened the wine. "Should you be drinking that?" Cameron asked worriedly, as he poured four glasses.

"I'm a big boy," said House. "Besides," he added, nodding towards Wilson, "I have parental supervision."

"I thought you said I wasn't your mommy," said Wilson.

"No, you're my daddy," said House, waggling his eyebrows. "My sugar daddy." He confided to the other two, "He buys me nice things."

Foreman snorted and shook his head. Cameron looked put off.

The doorbell rang. House figured it was just Chase, so he yelled, "It's open!" and chased a Vicodin with half a glass of wine.

Cameron looked faint.

Chase brought more food in, and handed Wilson some change. House gave Chase a glass of wine and Wilson went back to the kitchen for another glass, and, apparently, forks and plates.

He was such a wife. When it was just the two of them, they just ate it out of the cartons with the throwaway chop sticks.

House surveyed his apartment. There were far too many people in it. Wilson was such a bastard. Very bad wife. "Don't any of you people have families?" he demanded. "You can't all be on call."

"I'm Australian," said Chase. "We don't observe the holiday."

"Yeah?" House said. "What's everyone else's excuse?"

"It's like bear-baiting," said Foreman. "There is no excuse, it's not smart, it's not safe--it's just kind of irresistible."

"Oh, you want me _bad_ ," said House.

They settled in front of the TV, because House had never turned it off, and _Diamonds Are Forever_ was on. House sat on the couch between Wilson and Cameron, Foreman claimed the armchair, and Chase seemed perfectly comfortable on the floor.

Cameron winced when Plenty O'Toole was introduced, and went off on a rant about how sexist the Bond movies were. "Are we really going to watch this all afternoon?" she finished plaintively.

"There should be a woman super spy," House declared. "A crippled, Jewish, black, woman super spy. From _Australia._ That would be _totally_ awesome."

Wilson cracked up.

Everyone else turned to look at him.

Chase said, "Now, are we talking about an Australian Aborigine or an Australian of African descent?"

Foreman said, "Why are you dragging me into this?" and sank deeper into the armchair.

They were a couple of movies into Roger Moore's years when the phone rang again. "Get that, will you?" House said to Cameron.

Cameron blinked at him and answered the phone. "Hello? Oh, yes, he's right here," and handed the phone off.

"Yes, what," said House into the phone.

"Hello, Gregory," said his mother. "Who answered the phone?"

"Cameron," said House. "You met her at my office, remember?"

His mother sounded dubious. "Well, she seemed like a nice young woman, but you really shouldn't--she works for you, doesn't she?"

"Oh, Mom," House said. He had everyone's attention now. "For the record, my girlfriend is six feet tall and has gorgeous brown eyes and blond hair." He looked over at Wilson. "Okay, kind of a dirty blond, I guess."

His mother, who was used to this joke, said, "Isn't he married, dear?"

"Oh, yeah," House said, "and his wife is _really_ pissed he's spending Thanksgiving with me."

His mother laughed lightly. "And who else is there?"

"My entire staff," House grumbled. "It was Wilson's idea."

"Of course it was," his mother said. "Tell him Happy Thanksgiving from me, won't you?"

"Sure," said House.

"I wish you could come visit for the holidays," his mother said wistfully.

"You know I hate to fly," House said. "It screws with my leg."

"That weatherwise ache of yours," his mother agreed. "Your father's starting to get that in his shoulder."

"Left or right side?" House asked. "Could be referred heart pain."

Which got everyone's attention again. House studied his nails.

"You think so?" his mother said. "Maybe I should get him to go in for a check-up--do you think?"

His father hated going to the doctor. An apple a day, et cetera. "Yes, yes, you should," said House.

"It sounds like quite the party," his mother said after an awkward pause. "I won't keep you. I love you, Greg. You father, too."

"Yeah, I love you too," House said. "Good night. Happy Turkey Day."

He hung up the phone and told Wilson, "Angelina Jolie says Happy Thanksgiving."

"It's so nice when stars remember the little people," said Wilson.

Sometime just past eight, the doorbell rang again. "Who on earth could that be?" said House, gripping Wilson's knee to push himself up. "Everyone I know in the whole wide world has already descended upon my domicile, like locusts."

"You sure know how to make people feel welcome," said Foreman.

"You're not," said House. He poked Chase with his cane. "Move, or I'll trip over you and kill us both."

Chase sat up and scooted over. "Wouldn't want that," he said agreeably.

House answered the door, and was disturbed to greet Cuddy, bearing something round and foil-covered.

"I've been betrayed," House declared. "Who gave you the location of the batcave?"

"You did," said Cuddy. "It was on one of the pesky forms I made you fill out when I hired you."

"Curses," said House, then pretended to notice the foil-wrapped object for the first time. "Is that... pie?"

Cuddy looked down at it, seemingly embarrassed. "Yes."

"Pumpkin?" House asked hopefully.

"Of course," said Cuddy.

House threw his door wide open. "Then I welcome you to my humble abode."

Cameron and Wilson were both looking around the couch, and Foreman was craning his neck to see, as well. From the floor, Chase said, "Well, come on, who is it?"

"Cuddy," said Wilson, sounding amused.

"She has pie," House told him. "We need more forks."

"Aren't you glad I loaded the dishwasher earlier," said Wilson, and went off to the kitchen.

"Well," said Cuddy, "this is quite the gathering. I see it wasn't the traditional fare..."

"Yes, and we sorely missed the pie," said House, taking it from her. To Wilson, he said, "You haven't been out of my sight except to go to the bathroom last commercial break. Admit it, you called her with your pants down, you naughty boy."

"I didn't call her," said Wilson. He brought saucers as well as forks, but House figured that if they wouldn't all eat out of the pie pan with him, they weren't really his friends at all.

"He didn't call me," Cuddy echoed, hand on his arm. "I thought you'd be alone. I just," oh, God, here it came, the beast was about to admit to _emotions_ , "didn't want you to be alone at Thanksgiving."

"I wanted to be alone," House told her. "That was my plan. Until the Jew sold me out."

"Somebody owes me thirty pieces of silver," Wilson said agreeably.

House stripped the foil off the pie and handed it to him. Then he got a look at the pie. The smooth surface of the filling marred by a single puncture in the middle, as if of a knife checking to see if it were done. The crimped crust, marked as if by fork tines at just slightly uneven intervals. "Cuddy. Did you _make_ this pie?" House asked.

"No," said Cuddy.

"This," House said, "is a homemade pie. You made me a pie, and brought it to me, intent on relieving my loneliness..."

"I didn't make it," Cuddy insisted. "My sister did."

"Really?" said House. "She wants me that badly? I haven't even met her."

"Yes, well, I expect she'll get over her infatuation five minutes after she does meet you," said Cuddy.

"Why? Did you forget to tell her I'm a cripple?" House asked.

"No, but I did say you were charming," said Cuddy. "She'll be so disappointed."

Pie was served. Wilson cut it into eighths, which neatly left two slices for them to have for a midnight snack, after everyone else went home for the evening. Which House sincerely hoped they were going to--he was starting to wonder. Wilson kicked them out for him, though in the most horrifying way possible.

"I think the turkey should be done about three tomorrow," Wilson said. "So you should probably get here around two. If anyone wants to bring green beans, that would be great. We also ran out of rolls, and another pie like this would be wonderful." He smiled at Cuddy.

"I hate you," said House.

Wilson patted his hand and said, "I know."

**Author's Note:**

> Also on [Dreamwidth](http://jmtorres.dreamwidth.org/760483.html).


End file.
